


Torn in Two

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-10
Updated: 2002-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope





	Torn in Two

Frodo's skin gleams like it's burnished in the candlelight, and he moves like a slow flame above you. Burns around you. You wonder at the fact that you can keep your eyes open in the face of such brightness but don't dare close them - you've lost him too many times to risk it now. His own eyes close as he comes, and you swear you can see every drop, ever rivulet of sweat on his face, beading his eyelashes as he shudders above you. . . Around you, and leans so low and so close that you consider stealing his mouth for a kiss, but the teeth biting his lip hard enough to draw blood stops you. He draws it out of you too, something richer and stronger than blood, and you cry out hoarsely at the loss of it before sinking back, sinking down, sinking deep into over-sized over-stuffed pillows. Too crisp. Too white. He leans back against your upraised knees and your heart breaks anew at the too-light weight.

He rolls off you, sliding away like falling more than dismounting; and your flesh flares cold where he was touching you, your skin prickling under cooling sweat. His breath is quick and his body still shakes, but he's turned away from you, and his spine is like a strand of coals glowing in the candlelight. You trace your hand along them but they're cold.

"Frodo," you murmur, and each time you speak it it's like you're saying it for the first time, the taste full and fresh in your mouth. You turn, settling your body into the curve of his, your arms around his waist. He's still shaking.

"Love," you say,

    _you definitely said **Love**_

        "soon we'll be on our way home."

Home. Each time you speak it it's like you're saying it for the first time, the taste full and fresh in your mouth.

"All will be well again."

_Love_.

*

 

You wake, and for a moment the roof seems to low and the air too familiar. Your arms are curved about your wife and she stirs, shifting to face you and wind her arms about your neck.

"What were you dreaming about?" she murmurs, voice thick with sleep, and nudges a leg between your thighs, pressing. _What were you dreaming about, Love?_

You hold your breath as she sits up, astride you, but she's too wet, her movements to slick and even. You clench your fists into the sheets beside you - unable or unwilling to grip the soft roundess of her hips - and close your eyes, squeezing them tight and seeing flashes of green and white and pink as you arch back into the home-spun linen of the pillowcase.

"Samwise . . ." she gasps, voice rapidly spiralling down even as her rhythm spirals upwards, and the air in the room is too dense and heated, to thick and you're drowning, drowning, and you have no choice but to give what she's taking from you, what she's asking of you.

And you can whisper into her hair as you curl around her - body numb enough to mould to the malleable curves - _What were you dreaming about, Love?_

"The sea."


End file.
